Of Happiness and Brilliant Smiles
by SacredAir
Summary: You're about to snap out another of your practiced witty comebacks when your eyes lock with his. There's a tenderness there that you can't put your finger on, but it makes everything around you just that little bit better. Deeks/Kensi, Kensi POV.


**AN: Back with another Deeks/Kensi oneshot! This one...hmm, well, it's from Kensi's POV, and it gets rather fluffy towards the end (the more tired I am, the fluffier the content, it seems). Hopefully there's nothing to out of character.**

**Hope you enjoy it - reviews with thoughts and comments are very much loved, I would love to know what you thought :)**

This was not how you'd decided to spend your night.

Well, thinking back to it, this wasn't how you'd wanted the day to go either. Getting ploughed into by a Jag wasn't exactly a girl's dream come true – neither was the twisted ankle and bruising across your hip. Regardless of the injuries, all you'd done is silently ice them and gone on with your day without so much as a falter in your step; that was how it should be – for you anyway. There was no need to let people down – no need to let others know you're not half the Wonder Woman people think you are- just because of a little pain. You'd gritted your teeth and counted down the hours until the end of the day, when you could go home and finally allow yourself to examine the extent of the damage.

All you'd wanted to do was take a long bath, then pop open a beer and sit down to watch America's Next Top Model (which is not too bad a show, no matter what anyone else thinks). Perhaps you'd even heat up one of those 'Meal for two' trays in the microwave and then accidentally (very accidentally) eat the whole thing. In your mind, that's the perfect way to deal with any injuries attained whilst on the job. Limp home and lick your wounds in solitude.

That's what you've always done. (Of course, there's no little voice inside your head telling you that this same lone-wolf routine is getting a little old – not at all).

That's what you'd always done, and – because you were comfortable with the age old routine, that's decidedly what you were going to stick to.

It's good not to depend on others too much, you repeat to yourself, over and over again, like a prayer that's easily forgotten. Don't depend on them too much, because there will come a time when they aren't there when you need them – or you can't be there when they need you, and then you'll be in for a disappointment you aren't emotionally prepared to go through.

Not again.

So when you hear the knock at the door and peel back the curtain only to find yourself staring into the soulful blue eyes belonging to your partner, half-hidden by floppy tresses of sun-bleached blond hair, you actually find yourself feeling somewhat panicky – because you don't really appreciate unexpected visits but for some reason you really want to invite him inside. You've never actually experienced this sort on inner battle before, and you wonder if it's got anything to do with the person in question.

You open the door slightly frantically – clawing at the latch and yanking at it because you're aware quite a few seconds have passed since you locked eyes with him and he's probably wondering what the hell is wrong.

'Thought you weren't ever gonna let me in.' He shuffles inside, two bags of groceries in his arms. '_Man_, these are heavy.'

Following him into the kitchen, you're careful not to limp too much, instinctively searching for a snappy comeback. 'And now you're going to tell me what you're doing at my apartment at,' you glance at your watch, 'half-eight in the evening.'

He winks at you and _damn_ it, heat flushes your cheeks.

(That's something that's been happening more often lately.)

'M' gonna cook us something other than a – uh,' he looks over at the sorry little package you'd left to defrost on the work-top, 'pre-made lasagna for two.'

'Why?'

He turns away from the stove, all humor gone from his face, his mouth pressed into a thin line. 'Because you almost got K.O'd by another car – and you're nowhere near as okay as you'd like people to think you are.'

The truth stings you like a slap to the face, and your cheeks flush once again, but for a very different reason. He raises a finger and points at you before you can form a snarky reply.

'No.' The concern in his gaze is almost disconcerting – as is the commanding voice he uses, but you can't look away from the frank blue gaze. You know what that worry means – most of all _you_ worry about that concern yourself, because it's something that goes beyond the boundaries of friends and partners.

(Most of all, you worry about it because the feeling is one-hundred percent reciprocated, and you can't figure out how to deal with that.)

'No,' he repeats, shaking his head. 'Kens, I know how hard it is – I know how unbelievably hard it is to let others see you're not okay.' The hand he's pointing with reaches forward and falls on your shoulder. 'And it feels like a burden, because – hell – other people are able to let others know how they're feeling without a problem – they can admit to sadness, or helplessness without a problem,' he leans forward and the movement makes you look up, because at some point you've started looking down at the floor. 'And then there's people – people like you who have been through all kinds of shit you shouldn't have had to go through and it hasn't gotten you anything or anywhere – or any_one _- you see that admission as a sort of weakness. And you feel guilty for thinking like that – don't you?'

For once, he's rendered you speechless.

Your throat starts hurting in that tell-tale manner that indicates you want to cry. Because he's right – God _damn_ it – he's right, he _does_ understand.

'But you have to try and see it as a gift instead of a weakness – because that's what it is. A _gift_.' His blue eyes soften, and you blink back the moisture gathering in your eyes to give him a one sided smile, unable to resist the urge of sweeping a hand through his wild mop of hair.

'So,' the hand on your shoulder sneaks up to tap you on the cheek. 'Here's what's going to happen. You're not going to hide the fact you need to limp to get around comfortably, you're gonna go and watch America's Next Top Model – and I'm going to make us a lovely dish which is definitely more nutritious than a microwave meal.'

You manage to find your voice. 'Can't I at least help you with the dinner?'

'You don't trust me with your kitchen, do you?'

'Absolutely not.'

* * *

><p>He ends up getting his way (the puppy dog look works on you so well it's obscene) so an hour later you're half-dozing on the couch, listening to your partner pottering around in your kitchen (you can hear the occasional grumblings about what he deems a hoarder-like habitat from the living room, no matter how quiet he's trying to be) intent on making you something healthy to eat.<p>

The thing that's really eating you up inside is the fact that you just can't lie to yourself- you're sort of glad he turned up.

Hmm. Maybe…maybe it's okay for him to know when you're not at your best, huh?

Just as you're dropping off to sleep, you feel a foot nudge against your uninjured leg.

'Dinner is served.'

'Deeksss...' you whine, pouting. Of course the man had to interrupt you _just_ as you were crashing out.

He's hovering over you with what looks like a dinner tray, and gives you that ridiculously brilliant smile that you love more than you should. 'Having sexy dreams about me?'

Oh yeah. He's definitely more relaxed.

'I'd rather have sexy dreams about your dog.'

'I wouldn't go around saying that – might earn you some funny looks from people.'

'Well, look on the bright side, then they won't be focusing their sole attention on you,' you smile back sweetly, and he looks away, blushing.

(See? You're not the only one who likes their partner's smile more than they should.)

He helps you sit up - because your ankle has become stiff and it's harder to move- and hands you the dinner tray. The meal – a simple Chili-con-Carne with a side-salad - smells delicious; you barely wait until he's sat down with his own plate before tucking in.

'Jesus, Deeks – why the hell did you not become a cook?'

'I take that to mean you like my cooking?'

'You're not going to leave me alone until I actually _say_ that, are you?'

'All you have to say is that you like my cooking. It's perfectly understandable – I charm many women with my God-like cooking skills-'

Rolling your eyes, you hold up your hand. 'Oh my God, stop. Don't make me vomit. _Yes_, your cooking is fantastic. There, I said it!'

The both of you eat your meals in relative silence, and after he's taken both empty trays to the kitchen (you tried to get up and help him, but he just pushed you gently back down onto the sofa) you both put your feet up on the living room table.

…or rather, _attempt _to put your feet up. Your injured leg hurts to move, and Deeks notices you wince as you try to lift it up.

'Where does it hurt?'

'Deeks, really, I'm _fine_-'

A raised eyebrow sent in your direction makes the rest of that sentence die on your lips, and you sigh, quirking your lips into a small smile. 'I'm sorry – I-I'm not used to-' you point to your right leg. 'My ankle hurts like a mother – it's not broken, I just twisted it funny when I landed…and my leg feels pretty shitty too.'

You're wearing shorts – not overly short ones – baggy, basketball shorts (the last thing you want guys to see you in, really), so all he has to do is lean forward to see what you're talking about. You watch as his hand starts to reach out slowly, your body tensing in anticipation. As calloused hands stroke your skin, you barely resist the urge to shudder at the contact.

He seems to lose focus for a moment, staring at your skin rather than checking for swelling -but for some reason you're totally A-okay with this, because the longer he takes the longer he's touching you-

Something you wish he hadn't done, because he's going to have to remove his hand sometime.

All of a sudden he seems to realise what he's doing, and snatches his hand away from your leg. 'I-uh, did you take anything? For the pain?'

'Some painkillers – though I need to be taking them again soonish, I think. And I also bathed in hot water with some of those 'healing salts', though they had no effect whatsoever.' You can't believe you paid ten dollars for that crap.

He winks at you blue eyes sparkling. 'Eh, that's because those salt kits you buy in the pharmacy? They're all phony rip-offs compared to the real thing.' He flops back on to the couch next to you. 'Tell you what. Next time you get pretty banged up – and please let that be a long way off, or even better - never – you're coming with me to the sea. You bathe whilst I surf,' he waggles his eyebrows suggestively. 'I'm sure we'll both have the most spectacular views.'

Turning your head, you're about to snap out another of your practiced witty comebacks when your eyes lock with his. And the look he's giving you isn't lecherous – quite the opposite. There's a tenderness there that you can't put your finger on, but it makes everything around you just that little bit better.

'Hmm,' you sigh, lifting your legs up gingerly so that your feet are finally perched on the table next to his. 'Though I'd rather go to the sea with you when I'm able to move, and not when I'm all bruised up.'

'Are you implying you're actually willing to spend more time than necessary with me?' he grins, and shifts his arm so that it's around your shoulders. 'Because I'm totally okay with that, by the way.'

It's stupid, because nothing in his tone gives you reason to believe he actually thinks otherwise – but for a split second you really want to tell him how much he means to you. How much he's helped you think outside the box. That he's not a burden – that he's a blessing. Most of the time, you're so intent on bickering with him that you don't let him know what a great guy he is. A sudden wave of sadness rushes through you - and the thought is out of your mouth before you can stop it.

'I'm sorry I'm so horrible to you,' you instinctively turn to face him, but by now he's so near that your nose brushes his neck. 'I'm not…I don't mean to be such a bitch, y'know. It's just that, for some screwed up reason, I'm better at offending than complimenting. And I'm always giving you a hard time, but…you mean so much more to me than I lead you to believe.'

He's silent for a while, and you listen out to see if a) he's thinking frantically, or b) he's fallen asleep or even c) he's going to call you out on your uncharacteristic display of emotion and crack a joke to dissipate whatever tension you might have created. Just as you're starting to wish you hadn't said anything – to the point that you sit up to shuffle away from him- his free hand reaches to take yours. Instinctively, you turn your head around to watch his face, read his reaction to your outburst.

'Don't.' Clear blue eyes stare into yours. 'Don't call yourself a bitch, Kens. You're one of the most decent people I've ever had the honor of knowing.'

It's hard to look at him, because for some inexplicable reason your breath catches in your throat, your heart is racing, and you can feel a blush creeping up onto your cheeks.

(What _is_ it with him and this feeling?)

If he notices anything, he doesn't seem to care, because he continues on regardless.

'Sometimes…Jesus, Kens, I see you beat yourself up over something that isn't your fault, and it makes me wonder…I wonder why you're so hard on yourself.'

Something changes in his demeanor – a storm begins to brew in those endless pools of blue. 'Sometimes…' he licks his lips and runs his hands through his hair. You realize he's nervous, so you run your thumb lightly over the back of his hand.

Maybe you should be nervous, too, but suddenly you're not.

Slowly, in your mind, something starts to click into place.

'Sometimes what?' you coax quietly.

He sighs, struggling to find the words. 'Sometimes…I want to do things.'

You frown, giving him what at best you could call a confused smile, because hell, after that moment you both shared…whatever you would call it, it's hard not to feel slightly disappointed. In the last three hours he's broken down many of the barriers you'd put up around yourself, and it's making you feel a little vulnerable, if you've quite honest. 'What things? I don't get it.'

What happens next isn't what you had expected.

Not at all.

You weren't expecting him to just go and kiss you.

Usually, you pride yourself in reading people well – well enough to more or less predetermine their next move with some level of accuracy. It's a talent that has saved your life more than once.

When his lips press against yours, you can safely say that in this instance, said talent has let you down.

(And you're not disappointed by this fact. At all.)

When he finally pulls away – whenever that is, because, hell – did time freeze, or speed up, or slow down? - it takes you a second (or rather, much longer) to come to your senses, and to realize he's started talking again.

'What?' you ask, voice thick, mind spinning.

He gives you a shy smile that almost has you leaning down to kiss him all over again.

'I want to do that. Often. Whilst we're working.'

'Oh.'

'Oh?'

'Oh.'

_Please_, the part of your brain which is still able to function properly begs, _please say something_. If you keep answering with the same, non-committal answer, you know he's going to up and leave, and tomorrow – tomorrow he's going to pretend that nothing's happened-

The realization hits you pretty hard.

You don't _want _to pretend that nothing's happened.

…and it doesn't take you long to realize that you've said that out loud.

'What?' he asks carefully, but behind the apprehension, there's a happy spark in his eyes.

And, _God, _that's what really makes any doubts you may have had disappear.

Because as much as you moan and groan and act it's not that much of a big deal for you, the fact is you _love _it.

You _love it _when he's happy.

Rubbing at his wrist with your thumb, you smile shyly. 'You make me very happy.'

His answering grin brightens the room. 'Yeah?'

Opening his arms, you feel him sigh contentedly when you curl up against him, and he envelops you in a tight warm hug, pressing a kiss to your temple in the process. It makes your eyes sting, because you've never been one to appreciate tender gestures all that much, but it's _Deeks._

That makes all the difference.

'Would it - uh, would you like to go out to dinner tomorrow? With me, I mean. Or.. or something..-'

His nervousness is incredibly endearing, but you don't think you're going to tell him that just yet. No, better leave it for further down the line.

(You know it's serious when 'further down the line' is running through your brain, and funnily enough that doesn't freak you out as much as you thought it would.)

Sneaking your arms around his waist, you press a kiss into the crook of his neck, and mumble a sleepy reply. 'Yeah. Yeah, that'd be nice. I'd like that.'

It's not long before he falls asleep, deep breaths making your head gently rise and fall. His limbs are tangled with yours, and your hand in his.

When you finally succumb to the same tiredness, you dreams are filled with calm seas, brilliant smiles and sincere blue eyes.


End file.
